Glimpses
by scrub456
Summary: Little non-linear glimpses into the daily life of Sherlock and John. Humor, friendship, fluff, and maybe some whump. No smut. One word prompt per chapter (30 day writing challenge).
1. Shopping

The first time John does the shopping and doesn't pick up a single own - brand item, it's a momentous occasion. It's not, truly, but John tells himself it is.

His family wasn't poor. His parents were working class, and proud. John never felt he'd missed out on anything important just because he grew up eating Sainsbury's corn flakes rather than Kellogg's. "More for the money," mum always said, and it made good sense. Especially in uni, when he couldn't always keep a _good_ job and good scores.

Army rations weren't bad. They weren't necessarily good though either. But John didn't have to pay for them (he'd realize the error of that thinking halfway through his third tour), so anything was better than nothing.

When John returned to London with nothing but a scar and a tiny pension, the shopping wasn't a question. The shops sold nearly expired or slightly damaged goods for a bargain. He learned to make do. Just barely.

But the day he picks up the Heinz beans instead of the Tesco ones, and walks right past the shelf of discounted dented cans, is a good one. He's been at the surgery for six months now, and Sherlock's had three paying clients in as many weeks. The rent is current and the utilities are paid. John splurges and picks up the chocolate McVinties Sherlock likes. He doesn't even fight with the chip and PIN machine.

An overnight chase through the city, and the shopping is forgotten until the next morning when John decides on beans and toast. He offers to fix Sherlock a plate and is met with silence. John takes that as an admission of hunger since refusals are delivered with some vehemence.

He places Sherlock's plate next to his elbow, and doesn't realize it's even been acknowledged until he sits down across the table, his own plate in hand. Sherlock has taken a bite and is chewing thoughtfully. He manages to swallow before he scowls.

"These are terrible. What have you done differently?"

"What? Nothing! They're perfectly good beans. I just got them yesterday." John furrows his brow and examines his food. "Did you spill something?" He waves his hand over the mess surrounding Sherlock on the table.

"Of course not!" Sherlock is indignant as he turns and dumps the plate in the sink.

John hums in frustration and takes the first bite of his own breakfast. He finds himself frowning at his plate. "Oh god. That's awful." Sherlock casts an imperious glance his direction before returning to his microscope.

The next time John does the shopping, he replaces the Heinz beans he's agreed to let Sherlock grow mould cultures on with the dented Tesco ones.


	2. Gardening

Sherlock takes the large book down from the top shelf. The anthology is massive, weighty. It's a study of Italian horticulture, in Italian, and it's several hundred years old. He keeps it on the top shelf with the other antique tomes because he knows no one will give it a second look (he's come home to find John perusing the ancient book of medical oddities that rests just to its right only twice, and he himself has referenced the lithograph of poisonous plants shelved to the left a handful of times over the past few months).

He has never read the book on Italian horticulture. It's not that he can't, he absolutely could if he were so inclined, he's just not interested. He pauses to study the worn leather binding, and he's glad there is little chance John will wake long enough to walk in on him with the book - a ten-hour shift at the surgery followed by a gruesome overnight murder case that spilled into most of the next day ensures John will sleep soundly for at least another four hours.

No, ownership of the book of Italian horticulture has nothing to do with an interest in gardening. It's not scientific curiosity, nor a desire to immerse himself in the language. It's nothing so noble, nor is it logical. Sherlock is embarrassed to admit, even just to himself, what this book represents. It's the very embodiment of sentiment.

Placing the volume carefully on the coffee table, Sherlock gingerly turns through the brittle pages until he comes across the first of many delicate secrets he's hidden within. It's a perfectly dried and pressed daisy, a gift from a neighbor girl, one of few childhood friends. He trails his fingers over it so very gently before he moves to the next.

A pink bush rose from mummy's garden. A white carnation from his grandmother's funeral. A little bundle of hawthorn from a particularly pleasant family holiday to the country. A red poppy from the first time he paid a young homeless girl for information on a potential suspect.

There are other occasions and memories, dozens of them, all stored safely in Sherlock's book of Italian horticulture, each one represented by a perfectly dried and pressed flower. There are also several poisonous blossoms preserved amongst the pages, strictly for safekeeping and future reference.

The newest additions to Sherlock's collection are all from cases. A great many of them are specific to John-related memories. He thinks that is probably significant, but hasn't brought himself to explore the line of thought in depth. It's not that he doesn't want to understand this enigma of a man more fully, but he's afraid of what he might discover if he does.

So he stores details about John in his mind palace, and he presses mementos in his book. He finds an empty page and carefully positions a fiery red oak leaf from their post-case walk through the park only a few hours prior. Despite being exhausted, they'd been laughing together about nothing in particular. They'd stopped for a coffee at a vendor cart. When John turned to hand him his cup he had smiled warmly and plucked the errant leaf from Sherlock's hair.

"Autumn's always been my favorite," John stated, apropos of nothing, before he let the leaf flutter to the ground.

Sherlock convinces himself, relying on the most dubious evidence, that John hadn't noticed him retrieve the leaf and tuck it carefully away in his pocket. He makes a note of the date on the page, though he knows he will never need the reference.


	3. Gifts

"John, I know how much you value your privacy. I hope you know the importance I place on honoring your boundaries."

Lips pursed and eyebrows raised, John casts him an incredulous look. He doesn't respond otherwise because they both know how little effort actually goes into Sherlock respecting John's privacy. He simply goes back to inspecting the items on the shelf in front of him.

Sherlock huffs and clasps his hands behind his back as he reviews the items in John's basket. A birthday card with a terribly lewd pun (John found it amusing) and a gift bag adorned with a cartoon skeleton wearing a party hat. He's also picked up a bottle of multivitamins intended for the elderly, a spectacularly horrendous pair of cheap reading glasses, and a packet of hearing aid batteries.

"I am concerned that you seem to think your health has declined significantly of late. I assure you, in my regular assessments, I've noticed nothing to signal any alarm. Though you are a doctor, and I do trust your judgment, you appear quite healthy for a man of your age."

"A man of my age?" John stands up a little straighter and glares. "I'm only a few years older than you, Sherlock. What are you on about? What assessments?"

Sherlock rolls his eyes and nods to indicate the items John is planning to purchase. "John, you have no need for any of those things."

"These aren't for me, git. They're for Greg."

"Greg?" Sherlock frowns.

"Lestrade," John sighs. "It's his fiftieth tomorrow. There's a party. Any of this sound familiar?"

Sherlock feigns a thoughtful look. "Nope." He pops the 'p' for emphasis. "Does Lestrade need these things? Perhaps I should run an assessment on him as well."

"What? No! No," John chuckles, which is perplexing. "It's a joke. It's funny. Because he's getting old. Get it?"

Furrowing his brow, Sherlock considers the new information. He points to the shelves in front of John. "Adult male incontinence hardly seems a laughing matter. Won't he be offended?"

"God, I hope so." John looks a bit devious as he drops a package of adult diapers in his basket. Sherlock is watching him carefully, intrigued by this mischievous behavior. "Look, it's what mates do. A sort of social construct, yeah? It's just a gag gift. Don't worry. We also got him tickets to the Chelsea versus Manchester United match."

" _We?_ A match? Is that an athletics... event?"

"Calm down. You won't be expected to go. I'll suffer through for the both of us." John pats Sherlock's arm a bit facetiously, but Sherlock is still relieved that he won't be forced to attend. "Right." John nods resolutely and steps past him to make his purchase.

"Wait, John." John turns back and eyes the colorful pamphlet about erectile dysfunction in men under the age of sixty that Sherlock is holding out to him. "Perhaps you could include this in the card?"

John huffs a laugh and takes the pamphlet. "Yeah, all right."


	4. Kisses

***A/N***

This "glimpse" is kind of silly, and not as in character as some of the others. But it was one of those ideas that once it came, it demanded to be written.

* * *

It's silly and childish this thing they do.

The first time, it's an accident. Sherlock blames John's nurturing bedside manner. John knows that's not it, because as a professional, he understands it's both unsanitary and frowned upon.

Especially when the patient in question is a six foot tall adult male with a stab wound. A fidgety, lanky man-child who, incidentally, happens to be his flatmate.

John thinks it's just too many days with too little sleep.

He's only shared a flat with Sherlock for a few weeks, and John's already stitching up a stab wound. Sherlock's cut is deep, but not dangerously so, across his forearm. By comparison, it's one of the easiest combat wounds John's treated.

John feels terrible about the whole thing. It's not his fault, Sherlock even says as much, but he can't help thinking that if he had just been quicker... More sullen than usual, John cleans the wound thoroughly, and sets to work on the stitches. Eighteen in all. John's technique is efficient, his touch gentle, and the end results are neat and precise.

Sherlock wonders at the skill he observes, despite the shoulder wound and nerve damage. He's absorbed with deciding how he can test John's full capabilities and hardly notices when John dresses the wound with military precision. It takes him a moment to realize that John does something peculiar next.

"Did you just..."

"Sorry. Oh god. I'm sorry, I don't know wh-" John lowers his chin to his chest. He takes a few purposeful breaths before dropping things haphazardly into his kit.

"It's been a long time since anyone's kissed my boo-boos." Sherlock clears his throat. He's sure John can _hear_ the smile tugging at his lips, and he's not certain that's a response John will appreciate.

"Damn it. I'm sorry." John mumbles as he stands abruptly, tugs off his gloves, and turns to wash his hands.

"John." Sherlock grabs his sleeve. John faces him, but he's looking at the wall beyond Sherlock's shoulder, avoiding eye contact. "It feels better already." He doesn't smile. He won't. John's eyes dart to his; he opens his mouth, then closes it without speaking. "Perhaps a lollipop next time."

John huffs and repeats, "a lollipop," at the same time Sherlock declares, "cherry is my favorite." They stare at each other and Sherlock does smile when relief replaces embarrassment on John's face.

"Let's keep the _next times_ few and far between, yeah?" John laughs.

The "next times" aren't as frequent as one might think. Sherlock is a good fighter after all. And though he destroys their belongings for the sake of science, he _is_ a graduate level chemist, so he knows how to, on principle, avoid injury.

But there _is_ a next time. So, John cleans, stitches and dresses the cut on Sherlock's brow. When the last plaster is in place Sherlock looks up with expectation.

John reaches into his kit. "I've got rockstars of science stickers." He holds up one featuring Pasteur and one featuring Curie. "Or lollipops."

"I want one of each."

"Pick _one._ " John acts like he's reasoning with a child.

"Two stickers," Sherlock bargains.

"One."

Pouting, Sherlock switches strategies. "John, I'm injured." But John's not budging. "Fine. A lollipop and..." Sherlock inclines his forehead towards John and taps the bandage.

"For godsake." John rolls his eyes. "Fine." He digs in his bag and pulls out two lollipops. "Tequila worm or cherry scorpion?"

"Cherry scor-" Sherlock holds out his hand and wiggles his fingers impatiently. "This lollipop has a _scorpion_ in it." He looks both disgusted and fascinated.

"Yes." John digs out a few more. "Green apple cricket. Banana ant..."

Sherlock is giddy. He tears the cellophane off an amber colored butter rum grasshopper.

"Let me know how it is." John chuckles as he organizes his kit. Sherlock hums, and leans forward. "Right," John sighs. He's smiling. He places a gentle kiss on Sherlock's brow.

"Feels better already."

"Git."

Five lollipops (two cherry scorpions, one each tequila worm, strawberry ant, and blueberry cricket), three stickers (Tesla, Bohr, and Oppenheimer), and as many kisses later (plus the one case that was so terrible, so ugly, three gentle kisses to the crown of Sherlock's concussed head made them both feel better), it's John who needs patched up.

Sherlock pretends he doesn't notice how pale and drawn John looks. He won't draw unwanted attention, but he's furious with Lestrade for not noticing. He rattles off an obvious deduction and casts a murderous glare at the suspect before hailing a cab.

"Home." John shakes his head when Sherlock tries to protest.

Under the cover of night, John's grey jumper and black jacket do a fantastic job concealing the blood from the long jagged cut over his left ribs. It doesn't need stitches, nothing is punctured, but it hurts and bleeds any time he breathes or moves. Which is always.

John allows Sherlock to clean the wound. Sherlock gripes about Lestrade's team, which makes John laugh then curse in pain. He guides Sherlock through dressing the cut with tight bindings to keep himself from moving.

"I expected more difficulty." Sherlock is done helping John and is digging through John's kit, upsetting the meticulous order.

"Hurts too much." John winces and holds out his hand. "Besides, if I'm going to die on a case, it's not going to be from infection."

"No one is dying on a case." Sherlock frowns as if he's considering the possibility for the first time. He places two paracetamol in John's hand.

"Thanks, but that's not what I want." John points to his kit. "I've had my eye on the banana ant."

Sherlock chuckles. He finds John's lollipop and hands him the Schrödinger sticker. "You earned two, I think."

John hums thoughtfully. "And?"

"Y-you want me to? Really?"

"Works wonders for you." John tilts his head and taps his cheek. "Here will do."

Sherlock places a careful kiss on John's cheek, then another on the top of his head for good measure.

"Feels better already."

* * *

***A/N***

If you Google "rockstars of science stickers" and "insect lollipops" you will see that both of those things are real.


End file.
